The Day I Died

by E.B. Black

I had lived. And living meant that I had tried to kill myself and failed. It wasn’t even a possibility I had considered before now. I’d always known I couldn’t do anything right, but killing myself? I thought I’d at least be able to succeed with that.

I wasn’t supposed to be here when everyone dealt with the aftermath of suicide. I was supposed to get the same break from all the complications of life my father had when he ended it all. But that’s not what happened. I was stuck in a living hell again.

Because I was always crying and just didn’t want it to hurt anymore. Because I was tired of always feeling like such a burden to everyone I cared about.